Lessons from a Vacuum Cleaner

Recently we bought a robot vacuum cleaner. I’ve always wanted one, and when a friend shared a coupon code too tantalizing to refuse, we placed an order. Two days later, it arrived at our doorstep. The kids wanted to name it, and after arguing over Dusty or Mr. Hobbs, we settled on Dusty Hobbs. We don’t own a pet, so Dusty Hobbs is a big deal around our house. On more than one occasion, I’ve caught our four-year-old “feeding” him cracker crumbs, which is as counterproductive as it sounds. 

I’ll admit, I have a soft spot for Dusty. The kids joke that he’s my favorite family member because he always cleans. But it’s more than that, really. It’s the way he spins endlessly – hurrying here and there, hell-bent on a mission, and yet oddly lost at the same time. He bumps into furniture, tangles himself up in power cords. He is the very definition of busy. 

Like me?

I feel a pang of compassion for Dusty because despite his frenetic cleaning, every day his work starts all over again. Sometimes his efforts are undone within the hour. His purpose, it would seem, is futile. 

Like mine?

But then he does this thing, and it’s my favorite thing about him. When he grows weary, and his bright blue light flickers orange, Dusty Hobbs finds his way home. Abruptly, he transforms from a spry young vacuum cleaner into an ancient soul. The thrum of his engine quiets and he creeps toward home, bumping every object in the way. Adjusting and readjusting his course. 

No matter how far he roams, he always finds the charging dock because something inside of him is oriented toward it. Dusty knows his way home. 

Do you? 

Do you know where to go when the light within is flickering? When everything seems futile, and the optimism of youth feels a million miles behind you? There’s nothing humbler than crawling home. To crawl home is to admit: I am weak and weary, needy and wanting. It is equal parts heartache and hope. 

Hebrews 11 speaks of people who set their sights on a forever home – an unseen home, yet to come. Like Dusty, they were hardwired toward it:

All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for He has prepared a city for them (Hebrews 11:13-16).

True believers live for eternity. Sure, we get distracted – our affections get tangled up in the power cords of life. We spin our wheels; stuck. Or we wander off course until someone steers us back in the right direction. But invariably, inexhaustibly, our hearts ache for home. Whether we’re speeding along the living room carpet – on a high to be fulfilling the purpose for which we were created – or wedged beneath the refrigerator beeping for help, our hearts cry for home. They were simply designed that way. They cry for Jesus. 

Over the next several weeks, life will get fuller than normal. There will be Christmas shopping, gatherings, meal prep galore. Twinkly lights and pajama feet. Extra holiday bills, relatives, and tensions running high. Don’t forget to crawl home to Christ. To recharge and reset in His presence. Do it frequently – in the happy moments and as often as your heart wanes. 

Home is the place where the Savior waits with open arms. It is safe. It is near. And you are always (always) welcome there.